> The longer I shambled forward, the less sense things seemed to make as memories started to swim in my mind. Time seemed to falter as I walked, some steps slower, others faster than they should be, but I trudged on. The further I went the more diluted my perception grew, soon memories that didn't feel quite my own began to bleed out of mind, like watercolors staining a canvas. The world was replaced by a beautiful sight of a vast beachside ocean, but I kept walking. As I reached the water the illusion my mind had crafted warped and distorted fading back into the familiar darkness around me. Soon a familiar sensation started to bubble up from several memories, memories of wild forests and jungles, where I laid, with hunger gnawing at my innards. As I tasted the sensation of hunger in this place where I knew hunger could not exist, for all but certain. I kept walking, my march seemingly leading me away from the sensation as if it were but a mere passing place. My misty memories ceased after this point and I kept my steady pace, my curiosity begging me to continue. An interesting thought came to mind, if I could move my soul, or whatever my vessel may be, perhaps I can reshape it?
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> Quite some time later, I had made little progress, so I kept myself facing my stalwart path but decided to take a seat. As I sat I tried to latch onto my previous curiosity, hoping to use it as reprieve from the absence around me. I focused inward and slowly managed to feel the tiny pieces of myself I had swallowed, they had remerged with my form, but existed within in me, in a new shape a far cry from the fingers they once resembled. I slowly and begrudgingly tried to focus on moving them, like any other part of my body. Alas I was unsuccessful, but not discouraged. Perhaps I simply need to understand what I am to even begin to change myself. I once more stood back up, and carried myself along on the pale specters I now call legs.
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> After what I can only assume was a few days of walking I finally made a small iota of progress, I saw a tiny truly tiny speckling of white in the distance, perhaps I am not alone in this place. Or far more likely there may be at least an object to occupy my mind. While I have held onto sanity rather well, the more my memories try to take hold of my mind, the more I feel myself wanting to slip into a primal fear. It took another week of stumbling forward into the dark, until I reached the tiny speckling of white I had seen. Now it stood before me an obelisk of tiny colorful stars. A full head and shoulders above me it loomed, I gazed at it enchanted by it's beauty like an obsidian temple. Slowly and gently I reached my right hand out and rested it upon it's strange surface. unlike the absence around it, it felt distinctly hard and cold to the touch. I found comfort in it's stability only a moment longer before I saw something in one of the many colorful iotas of light dancing around it. It looked like a tiny moving photograph burning itself into my view. I slowly pressed my head to the obelisk and gazed into the tiny star. In it I saw a view of a brilliant and vibrant forest, centered on a man wearing what I could only assume to be a suit of medieval armor. I ogled at the sight for quite some time, watching his quiet trek through the serene forest. A new emotion began to bubble inside me, but not quite from my memories, jealously. For some strange reason I felt a pang of jealousy towards this mysterious knight, perhaps I simply craved his freedom.
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> This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
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> Many hours ticked by as I watched the life of this humble knight, his service to his kingdom, and his steady questing. Although his adventures were not daring, he still brought me more entertainment than I could've imagined from such a simple life. Hours crawling into days and skittered into weeks. Soon I had become curious of not only the knight but the other stars, so I greedily gazed upon them, soaking in their stories. From a vengeful minstrel traveling to claim the life of a kin-slayer, his dear brother whom had killed his sister. To a tired bar maid, living her slow life day by day, working tirelessly to take care of her two younger brothers and her little sister. I became obsessed with these little stories, little slices that let me peer into the lives of those who were not only living but free. Or perhaps simply trapped in their own boxes. It mattered not to me, I finally had something to occupy myself with. As is with all good things in this world though, it could not last forever.
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> A month or so later and I had grown fickle towards these stories, gluttonously watching as many as I could even as the little stars drifted in and out of view in the obelisk. As time began to wane, I felt myself growing frustrated, and jealous, seeing the lives of those who were able and free from an abyss of nothingness. Finally I decided that these feelings weren't right, so I took a step back from the obelisk. With a loud crack I slammed my already broken hand into the obelisk. It stood unbothered, while my hand did not, it's pieces falling around me, glittering across the ground. As before I took them in my other hand and threw them into my mouth, rejoining them with some deeper part of myself. A well of stubborn determination flared in me, another loud crack rung out. I mangled my lower left arm this time, once more consuming the remains it graciously provided. A sickening crunch rang out... then another, and another. Before long there wasn't much of any arm left, merely a shoulder that resembled a porcelain mug dropped right before a great feast hastily put back together with mud and clay. I carefully took each and every piece of myself and consumed them one by one. What caught my eye not a heartbeat later was the small pale white crack on the obelisk bleeding light like a fresh wound. Tentatively I reached for it.